


Prosoponym

by StrikerStiles



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Enola is very dumb for someone so smart, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Language of Flowers, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Tewkesbury's name is Gideon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikerStiles/pseuds/StrikerStiles
Summary: Faced with a societal difficulty in one of her cases, Enola decides marrying an old friend provides the quickest and easiest solution. Tewkesbury, on the other hand, isn't sure their marriage would be as convenient as Enola seems to think it will be. With a couple of years of distance between them and enemies on their pursuit as per usual, they will have to navigate their way back to each other.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 73





	1. Something Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selemetis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selemetis/gifts).



> happy birthday once again!!
> 
> Prosoponym: the set of names by which an individual person is known, and that can be recited as a word-group with the understanding that, taken together, they all relate to that one individual. (Adrian Room)

Enola Holmes was knowledgeable in many fields and interested in even more. Some of them were more vital and some were just side projects she used to occupy her never resting mind. One of those small, insignificant areas in which she was an expert, was onomatology. _Anthroponymy_ , to be more precise.

Her mother thought this silly but her interest in this field itself was also fascinating to Enola. Perhaps it was because she herself was given a seemingly meaningless name. The word people used to call her was an enigma which gave away nothing about itself other than spelling “alone” backwards. And perhaps that had to do something with how she often tend to feel, well, _alone._

Names, Enola thought, came to fit you or maybe they shaped you into fitting them. And maybe this was the reason why her mother apparently misliked names with clear meanings. Maybe she gave all her children empty slates as names, hoping to spare them of this particular fate. Enola believed this and did not believe this at the same time.

With each new person she met, she would catalogue their name in her mind and held the person against the light of its meaning, putting her theory to test again and again. Most of the time, the theory held fast. It suffered, however, one great, epic failure when faced with one incomprehensible and all together very confusing Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether.

His parents, for reasons that escaped Enola, deigned to christen their bundle of joy with a name that couldn't be more unfitting to its bearer had they tried.

Gideon (/ɡɪdiən/)

From Hebrew: _Feller. The destroyer._

Biblical judge and hero. Murderer of kings.

It was a heavy name. A dangerous name. It was, in Enola's opinion, like naming your newborn kitten Malicious the Dread.

The way his name messed up her theory at least, was consistent with its bearer. This was her only solace as she neatly tucked her annoyance inside a mental cabinet designated to Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether; _friend._

***

_Something old_

Sherlock is giving her _that_ look again, the one that says _what you are saying is too inappropriate even for me_. Its appearances are rare yet each time it makes Enola want to beat him over the head with a Wollstonecraft volume.

"Enola-" he begins but she already knows what he is going to say and has her entire defense written up in her mind.

"Let us examine the facts, of which the great Sherlock Holmes is so fond of, shall we? It's a house for fallen women. They will never let you enter the premises, if they wouldn't even accept a letter of recommendation from the Lord Mayor himself. And they wouldn't let me either, as a young lady. The wife of a generous benefactor, however, would be welcomed with open arms and a cup of tea. It comes together so perfectly."

"Yes, _perfectly_. Apart from the part where you would be married."

"I thought about that of course! Being married seems to grant a great deal of benefits on women, if they are lucky enough to have a say in with whom they are marrying and what for. And Tewkesbury is a friend. I have utmost faith in him to not mistreat me or try to keep me locked up like some song bird and even if I didn't, I'm rather good at making people regret trying to keep me captive, as you know very well. Besides, our union would benefit him to some extent as well. His mother has been very insistent on him settling down with a lady of good standing. We may lack a title but we have land, and the name Holmes commands respect and fear in all the appropriate circles. You remember there was an attempt on his life last Michaelmas? Me being around would do him some good, I believe."

"And what about the small issue of feelings?"

"Feelings?" Enola's brows furrow briefly. "I don't see what you mean."

"Which happens to be _precisely_ what I mean." Sherlock gives her a small, indulgent smile but it is rather obvious he is frustrated with her. It is the reason that escapes her. Her plan makes sense, doesn't it? Sherlock wouldn't be this cross if he could do it himself, of that she is sure. He is being rather melodramatic in Enola's opinion. There are certainly worse fates than having a marriage of convenience with a good friend. Marriages are built on less everywhere in the country every single day! Besides, it isn't like she is doing this to entertain herself. The sole witness of a terrible murder is just outside of their reach. Are they suppose to let that scum of the earth lordling get away with everything just to preserve men's delicate sensibilities? Tewkesbury is a good person, he wouldn't want that to happen. Besides, it isn't as if she is going to hold him at gunpoint to make him agree. She is just going to ask. What can be the harm in that? What _feelings_ are the issue?

"I think you are doing it again," she says.

"You say that every time I don't agree with one of your ideas."

"But usually that ends up being the reason." Enola fidgets with the lace of her sleeve, ticked off. "We would get nothing done if I allowed you to baby me whenever fancy struck you."

"Telling you marriage is a very dramatic solution for a very simple problem is not babying you."

"If the problem is so simple, then how come we failed to solve it for weeks now?" She takes a deep breath and composes herself a bit. "Violet wouldn't speak to anyone other than us because she fears getting murdered, and rightly so. There is nothing we can do to let them allow you inside. I have a chance. We have to do it before Hardinge manages to pack his son into a ship. If he ever leaves then there is no hope for justice." She swallows against the uneasy feeling that lodged itself in her throat. "I promised her, Sherlock. To her and Mrs. Merywinkle and Addie."

Addie, who doesn't even have a gravestone because her parents couldn't afford one.

Sherlock sighs. "You think I forgot?" Suddenly, he sounds tired. "I just- please be sure, Enola. You need to be sure."

"I am sure."

"Fine then. I will make the arrangements and write to the bank; I believe they have your dowry."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Can you also write to Mycroft and-"

" _Absolutely_ not. Have fun with that."

***

The proposal goes a little less smoothly than Enola had hoped, all things considered.

"You want us to marry?" Tewkesbury repeats for the fifteenth time in the past half hour.

"Am I not speaking as clearly as I think I am?" Enola straightens up and folds her legs neatly under the simple skirt she picked for that day. Skirts always makes her more closely watched when she is visiting and today she wished to be noticed and watched. It would make the whole affair more believable to anyone who may not know their history. Besides, it provides a decent blanket for reclining on the grass. When your companion isn't insisting on acting like a sullen fool for some reason, that is.

"I just...I was under the impression that you didn't want to..." his voice trails off, as does his gaze from her face.

So it comes back to _this_ then.

It seems to always come back to this between the two of them. They haven't seen each other much after their parting at the House and their correspondence had been sporadic at best, with Enola moving around so much, usually under false names. Enola showing up at his engagement party to prevent his future brother in law from poisoning him had been some sort of a reunion for them but didn't make things easier at all. Enola had learned about the engagement itself totally by chance from the paper and discovered the plot on his life when one of Sherlock's irregulars told her a piece of gossip he heard at a gentleman's club. Tewkesbury beamed at her at first, until she snatched the champagne glass from his hand and pointed the brother in law out to Lestrade. Conversation after that had been....awkward, to put it lightly. Enola's impression is that he's been upset with her ever since, but she can't put her finger on the exact reason. He is more distant, more courteous, more _mature_ towards her and the whole thing feels like being treated like a stranger.

Is it possible to disappoint someone by saving their life _again_? He seemed to like it well enough the first time around.

"Have you heard of the murder at Broadmere House?"

He shakes his head no, eyes still fixed on the tiny white flowers dotting the field.

"A maid named Adeline Smith was found dead by the housekeeper. An inspector was summoned and they thought someone had hit her over the head with a heavy ornament. Viscount Hardinge, suspecting a threat to his family, then hired Sherlock and I.When we were there, I talked to the entire kitchen staff and one of the maids were quite....well, she was absolutely terrified of even looking at me. She knew something. So I doubled my efforts on her and through the course of a week she confided in me that she saw the murder. Her story however, if proven true, would deeply displease our employer."

"Was it him?" He's still not looking her in the eye but at least he is looking _at her_ now. That is progress.

"No. Violet claims she saw 'young master' cornering Addie. They spoke briefly in hushed voices, both seemed agitated, she said. Addie turned to go and 'young master' reached for something but she couldn't see what, it was too dark. Frightened, she went to fetch the housekeeper so she could handle the issue. When they returned, no one was there. They walked back to the kitchen, the housekeeper scolding her for wasting her time. She entered the kitchen first and found the body."

"That's terrible. What can be done?"

"Well, she was going to testify before a judge so he can determine whether the House of Lords should be notified but she ran away before that can happen. Sherlock suspects she was threatened. We followed her trail all the way back to London and after some digging found her in one of the houses run by the Magdalene Society. The issue is that we can't reach her in there. We can't send others inside because she would be too afraid to even listen to them. The nuns acted like Sherlock was attempting to seduce every single one of their charges last time he went there with a letter of recommendation from the Lord Mayor. But then I thought they would let me in if I was-"

"A married woman."

Enola smiles at him, relieved that he finally understands.

He does not return it.

He seems rather stricken, if she has to be honest, as if she proposed they hunt down the murderer on their own. Not that they hadn't done that before. But it is a peculiar look on his face. It bothers her.

"Your family have been benefactors of the Society for generations, I believe. They would be more than happy to allow me inside if I go carrying your name. Don't you think?"

"Yes, I can see how that might be.....convenient." He says that last word as if it displeases him and Enola feels herself start to worry a bit. Was it not as good of an idea as she thought? Had their time apart made him too much into a man that he finds her proposal indecent?

"I understand you might have reservations," she says trying to hide her annoyance and worry, "but I believe it would be good for you as well. Your mother would stop trying to set you up with prospective brides. You wouldn't have to worry about trying to get to know yet another complete stranger who may or may not have ulterior motives."

He starts to look more and more closed off as she speaks so she sighs and addresses the elephant sitting right inbetween them. "I know we haven't been exactly close, lately. But I still consider you a very dear friend. And we got on quite well during our little adventure, have we not? I have no doubt we can come up with an arrangement that would suit us-"

"Will you stay, then?"

That is unexpected, and so is the look that accompanies it. He says it like he is issuing a challenge, almost. It makes Enola feel like she is missing something and that is one of her least favorite feelings.

"Well, you know how much I value my work-"

"That's not what I meant." His voice is full of impatience and something Enola cannot place. "I mean, in between your cases. Will you be staying with Mr. Holmes, or-"

"We could hardly fool anyone if I keep staying with Sherlock, I think. Why? Do you want me to stay with him?"

He bites his bottom lip, clearly not pleased with her.

"Well, what? Why don't you speak plainly so we can stop playing this guessing game and-"

"Maybe you should go first." His hands are balled at his sides, holding on to the grass so tightly his knuckles stand up starkly white against the dark fabric of his jacket. "I asked you to stay once and you said no. You disappeared for years. I didn't even hear from you for months at a time. Then you show up out of nowhere, upheave my life and leave again. And now you are here, asking me to marry you? Do you see why I might have some reservations about this?"

"So you don't trust me?"

"No, Enola Holmes, I let you throw me off of a moving train before I even knew you. Trust isn't the issue here."

"What is it then?"

"I fear our marriage might not be as convenient as you seem to think it would be."

Hearing that hurts, more than she cares to admit. Even with her acute awareness they are not as close as they've once been, she never expected him to shut her out entirely.

"You might say no." Her voice sounds weak to her own ears. "It's not like you are bound to me-"

"A murderer might go free, Enola, of course I wouldn't say no."

Her stomach flutters in the most annoying fashion, as if him telling her what she already knew is a cause for such excitement. What _disgrace_.

"Then what do you mean-"

"I mean the after." He sits up too and for the first time that day, he looks her directly in the eye. "What will happen after you speak to your witness and hopefully Hardinge goes to the gallows, where he belongs? What will happen to us?"

There he is, ruining her well laid out path of life as per usual. She tries to not let him see how she didn't think of this part at all.

"We can just get an annulment."

"That would cause a scandal."

"Your reputation would survive, I'm sure."

"Yours might not."

"My reputation is mine to worry about," she says, her patience thinning and thinning. "Not that I ever had a stellar one."

"Not getting an annulment would be more beneficial for you," he muses. "The title might help in a number of situations and the funds, in even more."

"Wouldn't that cause an even bigger scandal? The Most Honourable Marchioness Basilwether going on exploits and mingling with impolite society, sometimes dressed as a boy?"

"It would. That would cause quite a ruckus at the House." He sounds...amused?

_Ah_ , she thinks, _so this is how it fits_. The destroyer of the composures of snotty lords.

"So?"

"I don't mind. You know how I love to cause chagrin to my peers." He smiles at her. Small but genuine, curve of his lips giving a boyish air to his face. Her own lips rushes to return it without her consent. She wants to reach out and touch him, free and uncaring as she's been on their very first adventure, but she can't for some reason. It feels more real, more forbidden, more of a declaration here at his seat, where any gardener or butler can come across them. Like the old days just had been borrowed time and now she is repaying it.

She doesn't like it one bit, this feeling that feels suspiciously close to missing someone. It's silly. He is right there, telling her he will marry her.

"Alright then, I get benefits and you get to annoy the House of Lords yet again. What were your reservations?"

His smile dims and she wants so badly to take the words back.

"I would hate for you to feel...trapped."

She lies back down. It is an awfully bright day and they are surrounded by idyllic trees. Birds are singing around them. She can come up with a hundred better ways for them to spend this day off the the top of her head.

"You said you wouldn't mind my work. Since my work covers the majority of the unladylike things I enjoy doing, I assume I should be set. Apart from fencing but I can best you at that, so I'm not much worried." She wanted to make him smile again and he does, but still not as brightly. "Perhaps you should worry about yourself more, your lordship. I don't bring much to this union other than what is required, as any tattletale would be quick to point out."

"I'm rather convinced you wouldn't try to poison me, at least not without a very valid reason, which is more than what can be said for some of my prospects." His voice is wry but doesn't carry any leftover hurt and for that she feels glad.

"That is certainly a great boon."

"You wouldn't allow me to become a complete nincompoop."

"Also very true."

"And your fame as a great detective would put off my esteemed peers who might be entertaining little plots to get rid of me."

"My, Tewkesbury, when you put it like that I'm quite a catch. Not even Scotland Yard could achieve that."

His laughter dissolves the hard knot in her chest.

"I _do_ have a couple of friends in the House, I'll have you know."

"They don't count if they wouldn't act as your second in an illegal duel."

"Why would I want them to, when I'm married to an expert marksman?"

Her breath escapes her in a rush of something bright and sparkling. She presses her lips tightly together so he won't see how pleased she is. At last, they are talking like the old days again.

"Try not to challenge that many at least," she says, trying to keep her voice light. "I do have to sleep sometimes."

He lets himself fall next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth, close enough for her to brush their noses together if only she turned her head. Not that she would. That wouldn't be very _convenient_ for their newfound peace, she reckons.

"No promises," he says, smile devilish this time. "'For better for worse', remember?"

"Keep that up and death may do us apart sooner than anyone can anticipate," she says but her heart isn't in it and it only makes him laugh again; finally sounding as young as he actually is, and free and.... _And_. The word pierces her mind like something stuck in teeth, equally annoying and unreachable.

_The destroyer of my peace of mind,_ she thinks, closing her eyes against the sweet smelling wind.


	2. Something New

Everything moves too fast yet agonizingly slow for Enola, once the deciding phase is out of the way.

One day Tewkesbury sends her a note informing her that he acquired the marriage license, the other, her mother in law appears at her door to insist they must go to the tailor _immediately_. All in all, it's almost pleasant, if one forgot this whole thing was happening to prevent a young girl from getting murdered and a murderer from walking free. She likes seeing the many colors of fabric on display at the tailor's shop. She likes how her mother in law doesn't seem too bothered by her more "irregular" traits. She likes feeling like she's working towards fulfilling her promise to Violet. They are back on the case now, as soon as she gets through the required hoops, she will be on trail once more.

Tewkesbury comes to visit her at Sherlock's the night before the wedding. Mrs. Hudson says it's very inappropriate for the couple to see each other before the wedding and very improper for a young man to carry on with such careless conduct, but brings them tea and gives Tewkesbury extra biscuits when he compliments her on them. It seems there is not one single soul he can't charm.

"I have spoken with mother right before I left. Everything seems to be in order, as far as she's aware. Do you have anything in mind that we are missing?"

"We'll require a house in town-"

He hums, dismissive, like she mentioned she might require a handkerchief or some ribbon.

"Of course we have a house in town."

She assumed as much but the way he put it is so-

"God you are _such_ a pampered twit," she says, air escaping her nose with amusement. "You are! Listen to yourself. _Of course_ we have a house in town."

His face is the perfect mask of false indignation. "Well, in that case, your ladyship, so are you, because, like I said, _we_ do."

Suddenly it ceases to feel as amusing as it did a few seconds ago. She cannot be sure if it's his usage of your ladyship or the realization of things being _theirs_ now that does it. Because they are married. Well, will be, in a couple of short hours. Somehow this makes the whole thing more real than picking the wedding dress or seeing the marriage license ever managed to do. She, Miss Enola Holmes, will be a peer of the realm alongside people who casually say things like 'I tasted this wine at Lady Antoinette's house in Bordeaux and it was so delightful I simply _had to_ buy the entire vineyard!" as if these are normal, acceptable things to say.

_Bollocks_.

She keeps her mind safely anchored to this unpleasant thought just to avoid the part of her running wild with the fact that she will have _a husband_ very soon and that husband will be Tewkesbury.That they will be occupying the same space when she doesn't have to be away for a case. It's a lot to think about. A lot to obsess over. And there is the wedding. Oh god, the wedding.

_You are doing this for Violet_ ,she reminds herself. _For Addie._

And at least, no one is dragging her to the priest kicking and screaming, which is more than what can be said for a lot of women in the course of history.

"Enola?"

She blinks a few times, tries to bring herself back to the present. "Yes?"

"You went far away." He is looking at her with concern. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no. I just realized....the wedding."

His nose scrunches up but he offers a smile. "Yes, I spent last night worrying about that. But you know what helped?"

Enola can tell from his face that it will be something entirely ridiculous but maybe that's what she needs right now. "What?"

"You once asked for four yellow flowers, two blue and a red one. The breed doesn't matter. And I never gave them to you so I went ahead and made your bridal bouquet."

She can barely remember asking for that. This man and his flowers.

"From yellow, red and blue? It will certainly give people something to stare at other than me, for sure."

"It's a secret message. So you have something to take your mind away from the crowd."

She can't prevent the corners of her mouth from curling up. That's just so.... _endearing_. He got her a puzzle as a wedding gift. "You know I don't know anything about the language of flowers," she says. She can see the guide on the shelf, nestled between two books about tropical vegetation, at the corner of her eye.

"I hoped you would have eliminated that fatal flaw by now, but you not being an expert for once might be better in this case anyhow. It would take you longer to solve." He leans back and lifts an eyebrow cockily. "Or you may admit defeat at any moment and I would be more than happy to-"

"In your dreams, maybe. I solved murders, I can handle a few flowers. I'll solve it before we even have the rings on."

His smile is far too sweet to be trusted.

"Don't keep me waiting."

***

Marquesses Basilwether have always wed at Basilwether Hall, since the day the seat has been established.

Until now, that is.

It simply would be a waste of time to go all that way just to return in the morning, they both agreed. Enola could go to the Magdalene house first thing in the morning if she was already in London. Maybe the nuns would think it unusual for a bride to show up at their door at the morning of her wedding but what would they know anyway, or tell whom? God?

Enola is okay with them telling God. She has _a lot_ to say to him herself.

She is at the little room they put her in, reading A Guide to the Language of Flowers, trying to memorize some of it before the wedding starts. Sherlock should come to pick her up soon.

Someone knocks.

"Come in." She doesn't even look up from the book, thinking it's Sherlock. She should've guessed from the long pause, probably. The man who stands before her clears his throat loudly. Enola raises her head, annoyed.

It's Mycroft.

It's been a while since they last seen each other, perhaps close to a year. Sherlock's cases keep Enola quite busy and whatever it is that he does for the Crown keeps Mycroft even busier. They do run into each other occasionally but the Holmes siblings tend to pretend they haven't seen each other more than anything else.

Enola hates the tiny bit of guilt she feels for not inviting him herself. She hates how even now a piece of her still craves his love and approval. Hates that after everything, they are still essentially strangers to each other.

He and Sherlock do not see eye to eye either but they are _someone_ to each other. They have this camaraderie Enola finds very hard to understand, something she's never been a part of and fears she never will be. She's not even sure if she wants to be, but it would be nice to have the choice, in this matter. It would make her feel like she was....well....a part of the family.

"Mycroft," she says.

"Enola." There is something different in his manners today. She's seen him annoyed and furious and upset and inconvenienced and disapproving but never nervous. But she's almost sure the tense line of his shoulders and the way he keeps moving his hands like he doesn't know where to put them is that; nervousness. His eyes are fixed to a point in the general vicinity of her left shoulder. "I-How do you do?"

"Quite well, actually. And you?"

"Same as always."

The silence is excruciating. Enola stares at the door trying to summon Sherlock with her thoughts. It fails.

"Is there anything you need, perhaps?" Mycroft asks.

"No, I've been told we are quite set, but nice of you to ask."

Mycroft's nod is so stiff that it surprises Enola to see he didn't snap his neck. "Good, good."

He coughs again, seemingly only to evade the silence. Enola stares at the door harder and any minute know she fears she will bore a hole through it but Sherlock is still not here.

"I- _ah_."

She looks at him and is shocked to find him looking pleased and.... _relieved_?

"You have something blue," he says, with the tiniest, awkwardest smile Enola has ever seen in her life.

Her hand goes to the sapphire necklace. "It's also borrowed," she informs. "My mother in law's." Better than silence.

"Good. I assume the dress is new?"

"So new it barely exists." It's the type of thing mother would say; the type that makes Sherlock smile. It's hard to say if it entertains Mycroft, since his face's still plastered with the smile of a man in great pain.

"Ha! Clever."

"And my shoes are old," she says, unsure. She lifts her skirt the fraction of an inch to let him see her old boots. "Just in case."

She catches the brief second where disapproval flies through his features but he reins it in and rearranges them into a polite interest. "Hmm."

The thing is, he's visibly trying. So hard. That throws Enola off. He never tried before, not with her. Well, maybe that's not true. There was a moment back at the pub after the fire and the stolen fur but-it wasn't like this. This is making her _feel_ things. She assumed she would enjoy seeing him uncomfortable for once, feeling insecure and lost like he made her feel but the reality doesn't live up to her expectations. It tastes bitter in her mouth. She's suddenly filled with melancholy.

"All ready to go."

"I bet you are missing something," he says, fumbling with his pockets. He finally finds whatever he's been looking for and spends a few seconds shining it with his sleeve. Satisfied, he holds it out to her.

It's a perfectly shiny little disc. She only recognizes it as a sixpence once it's in her own palm.

"To put in your shoe," he says like she's a newborn. "Or, your boot, I guess."

She's forgotten about the last line, probably the majority of her wedding guests do not remember either, but of course he would.

She's not going to ask him to walk her down the aisle and he probably wouldn't want to, anyway. But at least they have _this_ now, where before stood yawning emptiness. A little brightness tossed down that chasm. Maybe it will hit the bottom at some point. Maybe it will reflect some light that would let her understand him, at last.

"I've forgotten." She slides the coin into her boot with great care. "There. Now I'm all set.” She hesitates for a second. “Thank you.”

"Good," he says, for what feels like the billionth time. "I'm....glad."

They stare at each other for a heartbeat and then he coughs again, breaking the moment. "I'll go, then. It must almost be time. I'll send Sherlock."

Enola watches his retreating back with the strangest of sorrows. When Sherlock comes a few moments later, he finds her sitting on her hands, head bowed, looking more like an abandoned child than a bride.

***

The butler finally determines that the amount of fussing over bedding the maids have done is satisfactory and they trail off in single file, giving small curtsies to her, smiling allusively. She tries to keep her pleasant expression in place. They are not to blame for the extremely awkward night that's waiting for her.

No, she only has herself to blame for that.

Tewkesbury walks towards the twin armchairs facing the fireplace and perches on one of their arms. Enola walks around the room, examining furniture and wallpaper just to have something to do. For a couple of breaths, the silence stretches. Thankfully, he breaks it before it grows too painful to bear.

"I'm glad to see you are on better terms with your brother."

"I suppose seeing me finally do something he can approve mellowed him a bit." She picks up the silver brush from the vanity and absentmindedly trails the engraving on its back with a fingertip. "I was surprised to see him, if I have to be honest. I tried to draft a couple of letters to him but none seemed to turn out right and I lost my nerve. Perhaps he heard from his friends at the House."

"Perhaps," he says, entirely too fast and too agreeing to be even remotely believable.

"You told him!" Enola points the brush at him accusingly. "I can't believe this. You went behind my back before we were even married?"

"It wasn't my intention and I will explain- please put the weapon down first, if you don't mind."

"What weapon? It's a hairbrush!"

"You forget that I saw you bludgeon a man with a kettle." His smile is slightly tentative but fond enough to make some of her anger evaporate. "Not that you didn't look ravishing doing it either, but I reckon being the one who gets bludgeoned might dampen the enjoyment significantly."

For that she throws the brush at him, deliberately missing his head by a few centimeters. He doesn't even give her the satisfaction of seeing him try to duck.

"There. Now speak."

"Torrington came to congratulate me at the House. He mentioned in the passing that he was meeting your brother that day and that you asked him if he would deliver a note but it never reached him. He was worried you might've forgotten, you see. And I know your bond is not the most cordial but you intended to send him a note so, taking a page from your book, I deduced you planned to invite him to the wedding but chickened out at the last minute which you just confirmed yourself. And I know you. I know you would want him there, regardless."

She bites the inside of her cheek for a moment. It's an interesting feeling, to be known. She was raised to perceive as much as possible about everyone and keep the details well remembered but also to prevent anyone from doing the same to her. It is a bit unsettling, how right he got it.

This train of thought distracts her so much that she only catches it after a beat.

"I never chickened out of anything in my entire life!"

"Of course, my heart and soul. I believe you entirely."

Enola's breath catches. It's entirely ridiculous and over the top and she knows he doesn't mean it but his voice is so sincere and still, the words have meaning on their own, regardless of the speaker's intention, that is the entirety of speech, is it not, and in the grand scheme-

_STOP_ , she orders herself. _You are acting like an excitable fool_. He is a bad influence.

"Never say that again.”

"You know, I'm glad we stumbled upon this point. What am I _suppose_ to call you?"

"Enola has not failed anyone including yourself yet, as far as I'm aware."

"Yes, but you see, I'm surrounded by married man for the majority of my day and almost none of them refer to his wife by her given name. The names indicate the level of affection, I've came to think. Old lords tend to go with 'wife' and I don't think you'd like that. And I am not calling you 'the Marchioness' like we only see each other on major feast days. We are young and our affection survived years apart and brought you back to me." He stops abruptly and clears his throat. "Supposedly, I meant," he adds hastily. "That is the public story. And I believe it's a good one to cultivate. It would make you rather popular amongst ladies. So, affectionate names."

"Fair point," she says begrudgingly. "But you're doing it too much. We are not in a foreign novel."

"My darling?"

Her face sours and he has the audacity to look entertained.

"Dearest?"

"Preferably not."

"My love?"

For some insane, irritable reason, this makes her face warm. She only shakes her head no.

"Alright. What would you tolerate then? My most esteemed spouse? The Honorable Lady Detective?"

"Why can't men just do one thing normal and use their wives' names?" She says, exasperated. "Those are theirs, after all. Why must it always be 'my something' with men? Is it so hard to show affection without declaring ownership on the same breath?"

"I think people tend to associate the sense of belonging with love," he muses. " Also, I didn't intend to make it sound so...territorial, just so you know. I was just going through a mental list of some sorts but if you find them all abhorrent, I can stick to-"

"Well, I suppose you may call me your Enola, if it can't be avoided." She is an educated women, perhaps radically so, if someone asked Mycroft. She can talk about a number of topics the general public finds improper or embarrassing, over tea. She never averts her gaze when she is examining dead bodies for clues with Sherlock. She can swear like a sailor, when the mood strikes.

And yet, this happens to be the sentence she found the most difficult to utter.

His face loses the aloof and friendly expression right then, his throat visibly moving. "My Enola?" He says the words as if he's trying their taste.

"Not all the time," she warns, curving her suddenly shaky fingers into her skirt. "Just-when the company demands it."

"Of course. And I think you should call me by my name as well. Tewkesbury might seem a bit, well, formal."

"That is true. I will do so." She is not, however, going to do it _now_. She doesn't feel ready.

"I'm glad that's agreed upon." He walks towards the small table laden with pastries and a couple of crystal decanters. "Cognac?"

She shakes her head no out of habit but regrets it immediately. She needs something to wet her throat with before she can do what needs to be done next. She blames the tailor entirely for outright refusing to put the buttons on the front, or at least, the side. Her mother in law also insisted it would look very unusual for a wedding dress and no amount of complaining or pleading or pointing out that she _was_ a very unusual bride in the eyes of many sufficed to save her from this fate.

He comes back with a glass full of amber liquid, sipping from it in a fashion that brings the word "dutiful" to her mind. Is there a custom that dictates he should drink?

"May I have some?"

He soundlessly hands her the glass, crystal warmed by his hand. She takes a big sip and immediately regrets yet another decision, her face scrunched up against the burning, bitter sensation it leaves in her mouth.

"How can anyone enjoy this?" she complains once her cough lets up, voice hoarse.

"I'm yet to discover," he says with a matching impression. "It helps to take smaller sips though."

"Why drink if you don't like it?"

"Why did you?"

She grunts and puts the glass down on the window sill. She spoke to far too many people and exchanged far too many pleasantries to take propriety into consideration in her own bedroom. "Because I have to ask you to help me get out of this dress."

"Oh." He grabs the poor glass and takes another drink, apparently forgotten his own advice. "If you'd feel more comfortable, I can ask for someone-"

"That would be...unusual."

"I can pretend I'm far too drunk to be useful?"

She considers it briefly but it feels like an unnecessary risk. Staff tends to talk about what is happening in the house. She took advantage of this fact too many times to ever forget. Besides, he's already seen her underwear and she has a lot of layers under this dress. It should be fine.

"No, there is no need to keep them from sleep," she says. "Unless you actually drank yourself-"

"No, no, I believe I'm fit for this task." What little liquid left in the glass still sloshes, when he gingerly sets it back on the sill. She doesn't comment on it.

"Come towards me a bit, so it wouldn't crease." His voice is almost a whisper. She does as he says.

Then he begins unfastening the tiny buttons one by one.

And it would be just fine if it didn't force him to stand this close to her. If it didn't make his breath fall on the nape of her neck, warm and tickling, almost making her shiver. There is her corset and a chemise and a couple of petticoats between her skin and his hands but the intimacy of the act is so acute that there might as well be nothing. She is _allowed_ to ask him to do this now and he is _allowed_ to do it, and everyone knew they would be doing this at some point of this night, from the wedding guests to the maids. All of this information compiled together makes it unbearably intense somehow. It's not a stolen thing like it would've been had she asked him during his brief visit to her room back when they were fugitives.

He finishes with the buttons and starts unlacing her corset. The ribbon makes tiny whistling sounds as it slides in the eyelets. His breath catches for a moment.

She clenches her fists and the ring is hard and cold against her palm, unfamiliar. It will leave a dent under it one day, if she wears it long enough. She once saw it on mother's hand, as she was playing with her ring waiting for Enola to make her move. A thin, pale line, etched into her skin by years of devotion. She doesn't remember her father that well but she is sure her parents' was a love match. Her mother wouldn't have let just anyone put a mark on her like that.

She doesn't like feelings when they are like this; melting into each other faster than her mind can identify each individual one. She cannot decide if she finds that vision dreadful or comforting. There he goes, the destroyer of her self control.

He says "And we're done," startling her. "I'll just go...examine the bedding while you change."

And he _actually_ does it, the ridiculous fool.

After she manages to put on her extremely frilly sleeping gown, she sits at the edge of the bed. "You can look now. I'm entirely decent despite resembling a cake."

He snorts and throws himself to the bed, arms stretched above his head. "God this has been _a day_."

"In that case I'll gracefully accept more time to solve your little riddle."

"Failed already?"

"I have not failed! Not all of us can instantly recognize every type of flower on this earth."

"Pity. I'll have to spend our entire honeymoon teaching you."

She is very tired and very shaken from all of the feeling she's done today, so she lets it go, lying down. "I'm most obliged."

He turns his head towards her and for a moment they just look at each other, eyelids heavy with sleep. "You know, I can sleep somewhere else."

It's her time to snort. "Where, on the armchair?"

"Or the floor. The carpet is rather plush. I'm spoiled for choice, really."

"What is wrong with the bed?"

"I simply thought you might prefer it without me in it."

"We slept side by side before."

"We were in the middle of a field. I think it would be very weird if we slept miles apart there."

"And it wouldn't be, now?"

"I've been told it's better to ask than assume, in marriage." He sighs. "At least if I didn't feel like being a brute."

"I would hate you to become a brute. I would have to absolutely ruin your pretty face."

He laughs into his pillow. "You need to decide fast," he says through a yawn. "I can feel it coming for me."

"Always so dramatic." She reaches out and finds his hand on the cool sheets. "Just go to sleep. I have to wake up very early tomorrow. Your virtue is entirely safe with me."

"It better be, I'm a married man, you know." His eyes are entirely shut now but he would even talk in his sleep if he could. Enola rolls her eyes.

“My condolences to the lady. Good night, _Gideon_."

There is no answer at all. She recognizes the sleep in the pattern of his soft breathing. She falls asleep before she can manage to feel disappointed.

She'll get him another day.


	3. Something Borrowed

"I cannot believe this." He nearly rips off his puff and throws it on the armchair. "I reckon we should consider ourselves lucky. For a moment I thought Lord Cavendish was going to present him with a fine bottle of scotch to tie him over during his journey!"

Enola silently watches him from the door. His cheeks are growing pinker and pinker as he takes off his jacket as well. She is very familiar with the bitter bite of disappointment when faced with the indecency of the powerful. She's seen it at play again and again, vented at Sherlock the first few times, took her anger out of some practice dummies when necessary. And it's not justice, not by any definition of the word but it's still _something_. That is what working case after case taught her.

He too, will learn, if they get to spend enough time together.

"It could've been worse," she offers as Sherlock did the very first time and sits down.

"That is entirely true. He could have been knighted for his services to the people."

He throws himself on the armchair, jaw still very tense. For a moment she considers what she should do. This is a new face of him. He's been angry at his grandmother too, but that anger was laced with sorrow so thoroughly that it was almost indistinguishable from mourning in Enola's eyes. If she has to guess, she would say it was new for him too.

"No, they could've let him walk free," she says instead. "Think for a moment. If we were not hired, the inspector would never put blame on Hardinge. Had Violet not trusted me, no one would ever know. And if you were not involved to get the House involved in turn, Hardinge could've easily pleaded the privilege of peerage and walked away. And now he lost his title and soon he will be too far away to ever bother Violet or Mrs. Merywinkle again."

"He will live like a prince in India. His father is far too fond of him to ever allow otherwise. And what does Violet get?"

"Her life back." Enola sighs, leaning towards him. "Listen, I know this is far from ideal. And believe me, I am as furious as you are. He should've hanged. But we have to think practically. Violet doesn't have to fear he will come find her in the middle of the night somewhere. She doesn't have to keep hiding for the rest of her life. That is definitely something to her."

He scoffs again, twisting and untwisting the puff with nervous fingers. "You didn't hear the things they said in there." Suddenly he sounds defeated. "The questions they asked. Some of them were acting almost like....as if she was the one in guilt here. As if Adeline was."

A small part of Enola is annoyed to the utmost degree. How luxurious it must be for them; for Sherlock, for him, for this to be a newfound information. _He's trying_ , she reminds herself. _He's on my side_. It still stings.

And marriage is exceedingly awkward during times like these, she finds, because she doesn't have an operation plan of sorts, like the one she has with Sherlock. Their arrangement is new enough that she doesn't want to be too stern with him but at the same time, she feels like these issues should be discussed between equals, if that is what they wish in their....well....relationship.

She changes the subject instead, for now. "I believe Violet found your offer very agreeable."

"She deserves to be somewhere where she can know she'll be safe." He gets up so fast, the armchair rattles. "And that.... _that piece of shit_ had the audacity to smile at her! Actually smiled! I finally understood how people can become murderers right then." He abruptly stops in front of the fireplace and turns towards her. "Pardon my language. I forgot myself for a moment."

"I've heard worse and know far worse myself." She tries to suppress her smile. "Come, come sit for a moment."

He does, like a petulant child.

"The world is currently in this state," she says, quoting from a speech her mother gave to her long ago. "We should get any tiny victory we might find in it. But remember your anger just now. Keep it close to your chest. It will keep your heart warm and your mind clear and your hope alive so that, in time, we can get them, for once and all."

"Or we can take a trip to India," he says. "You can just shoot him and I can claim we were friends and that it was a hunting accident."

"As tempting as I find the idea of hunting terrible people for sport, I think it would be very noticeable if we keep getting involved in hunting accidents. Especially considering your passionate argument with whoever he was at the wedding about preserving wildlife of this country. That is without mentioning the outraged parents pleading the Queen to put us down."

"You can shoot them as well," he says without a beat. His face is still very flushed but at least his jaw doesn't look like it's on the verge of cracking anymore.

She rolls her eyes. "I begin to think you married me solely for my fire power."

"It is certainly one of your many charms." He offers her a tentative smile and reaches for her hand. She lets him hold it between his own, gently tracing her knuckles with a fingertip. It tickles, slightly. It also suddenly makes her aware just how little she's been touched since her mother left.

"They can't win, as long as we don't give up," she offers in a tone she hopes is consoling, "as long as there is hope."

"My hope will never be lost as long as you keep occupying this world, Enola Holmes," he answers.

In her haste to prevent her mind offering her a terribly sentimental train of thought, she forgets to point out that that's not her name, anymore.

***

Basilwether Hall is somehow even bigger than Enola recalls.

They arrive in the evening, the entire front is lit up to welcome the master of the house. She looks at the ornate facade, the ivy, sweeping land surrounding the building at all sides and feels like she does not belong here. The woods are fine. The fields she is rather fond of. The house itself is too big, too looming, too mournful. And then there are the memories.

She tries very hard to avoid looking at the patch of floor where she lied bleeding. Where Tewkesbury lied not-quite-dead. The tiles are polished to a high shine. She would've never known, had she not lived through that terrible night.

The staff watch her a little suspiciously as the butler introduces her. Perhaps some of them remember her from her earlier exploits at their terrain and expect a similar kind of thing at play here.

She half wishes it was, indeed.

He had called her out about not considering the after and since then she tried yet now, it seems like she never even made an attempt. She tries to imagine a moment where she would just wake up in the middle of one night and rush to the train station to meet Sherlock and she fails. It feels like the house itself is judging her for being too small in it, too common. An imposter, just like before.

That thought bothers her during the course of the entire night, through dinner to her bath to bedtime. She lies awake staring at the canopy, trying to figure out where that thought came from. She is not lying to anyone to be here. They are actually married. She never deceived Tewkesbury about her intentions with this marriage. It was him who offered for her to use his title and funds. What is the piece which doesn't fit here?

She finally gives up on sleeping and gets up lest she cannot resist to her urge to turn around constantly any longer, puts on a dressing gown and begins to wander around the halls aimlessly.

Her feet carry her towards the empty spot among suits of armor lining the wall. It makes a semi-decent hiding spot, when she sits with her knees pulled to her chest. No one would spot her until they were right in front of her. The tiles are still shiny even in the dark. Her rebelling mind slips back to the time when she was leaning over his prone, unmoving body, how cold his face felt between her palms, her deep denial and her great relief once she realized he was still alive. Out of nowhere she is filled with a mad urge to run back to their room and check if his chest still moves as it is meant to. She closes her eyes against the dark instead and breathes through it. It is a sign of leftover fear. She has nothing to fear now, not unless he can somehow manage to strangle himself to death with their sheets.

There might be a decent chance of that happening, considering how frequently he almost died in her presence. Wonderful.

The memory keeps playing in her mind's eye, the way they held on to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, the way his eyes swept over her face as if he's making sure she's in one piece, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long on her lips as if....

That thought remains _decidedly_ unfinished and dawn finds her curled up in the tree house, shivering under the tarp she found in the greenhouse.

***

Enola spends the morning playing hide and seek with her husband.

Well, it would be a game if he was aware they were playing it. He puts some effort into locating her, it seems. After the first two times he barely misses her in the library and the rose garden, he sends a maid over with an offer to join him in the sunroom. She makes up an excuse about seeing the gardener for something just to avoid making the poor maid suspect her affections even more. She actually needs to visit the gardener, besides.

Her wedding bouquet, carefully pressed between some tissue paper in between the absurdly many numbered pages of of Burke's Peerage, requires the help of an expert. She is not hopeless to the point of not being able to identify the rose, the carnation and the tulip but the rest, she can only make not very well informed guesses. It's nearly impossible to determine meaning without the species. They will only be here for a week, she must grasp the opportunity while she still has it.

The gardener has a face lined deeply by the sun and, going from how easily he manages to shake out tarps and lay them down on some of the less resilient plants, very strong arms.

"Hello," she calls from the end of the walk to not scare him. "My name is-"

"I know you, your ladyship," he says, looking slightly amused, "you paid my son in exchange of his clothes once."

"Oh." She coughs. "How is he these days?"

"Assisting his lordship in the greenhouse, mostly. They are working on orchids, I've been told."

"You were not interested?"

"I don't see the point of spending all that money and time on foreign flowers when we have such beauty naturally growing in our soil. His lordship enjoys experimenting though."

"While we are on the subject," she opens the book and carefully takes out the tissue paper, "I would appreciate your help very much, if you can spare some time, of course."

"Would be my pleasure."

She hands her little collection over and watches as he examines them.

"It would be great if you could tell me what kind of flower they are, Mr.-"

"Ainsley, my lady, the name is Ainsley. And quite an interesting bunch you have here, if you don't mind me saying. Did his lordship pick them?"

She smiles. "Is he that predictable?"

"Unpredictable, more like." His smile is unexpectedly fond. "He used to follow me everywhere when he was a small, wanting to learn everything there was about flowers. But always lost interest when I tried to explain traditional pairings and such."

"It's meant to be a secret message," she confides. "I would be glad for any information you can spare, and of course, if you can keep it quiet."

He nods, and touches one of the yellow petals as if testing the texture. "You know none?"

"I know the tulip and the carnation," she says, a bit defensive. "And the rose, of course. The rest escape me, I'm afraid. I've never been good with flower names."

"This one is a goldenrod," he says, pointing. "This here is primrose. The blue ones are iris and hyacinth."

She repeats the names back to him and receives a nod.

"I'm not much of an expert myself about flower meanings but it seems it will be a complicated message," the gardener tells her in lieu of goodbye, "but you are nothing if not persevering, I reckon."

Enola hopes he's right about her.

Back in the library, she starts from the one she identified first, the rose. Yellow rose, the guide informs her, can mean friendship, apology, intense emotion, undying love, extreme betrayal and a broken heart.

Very helpful.

She always thought language extremely interesting with the amount of deceit it allows. You can hide things by seemingly revealing far too much or reveal a lot by speaking so little. You can curse at someone with pretty words and bless someone with harsh ones. Some show endearment by yelling and some, by whispering. You can say one word and mean a thousand others.

The person who decided flowers should have their own language should've thought that was not elusive or confusing enough, to make it this way.

She can't help but consider the negative meanings more closely than the others. He was heartbroken back when she refused to stay, she knows. And it couldn't have been better when she showed up to reveal the betrayal of his fiancee and then vanished. She doesn't regret her choice per say. They wouldn't have become who they are today, had she stayed then. Maybe they would've grown into resenting each other, in time. It's hard to determine these possibilities. But she also knows how tough it can be to think sensibly when you are the one left behind very well. Though maybe he meant it to mean friendship, to assure her on their wedding day that things would be fine between them. It sounds more like him, when she thinks calmly. But then she checks the carnation's meaning and unlike the rose, the page is empty apart from three words printed in bold black. **_Red carnation: my heart aches._**

She closes the guide after that, uneasiness filling her. What will be the message, once she manages to decipher it? Will she like it? Or will it be like some of mother's training ciphers, only leading to dead ends or other ciphers that grew increasingly harder to crack, until she got stuck on one. _The lesson here is_ , her mother used to say, _that there are some things better not known. Sometimes they are not worth your time or effort. Sometimes they can be nothing but disheartening. Sometimes they are only meant to confuse you. It's vital that you know how to determine these qualities about a message sooner rather than later, as well as you know how to decipher it._

Hurried footsteps grow nearer and nearer and she turns her head just in time to see the butler at the door, looking few seconds away from going insane, well, if people can go insane without wrinkling their shirts or causing a single hair to fall askew, that is.

"My lady, there you are," he sounds slightly out of breath. "You must come at once. This is madness, madness I tell you-"

"What seems to be the issue, Mr. Price?"

"The Marquess is out in the gardens!"

Enola blinks at him a few times, trying to understand what can possibly be an issue here.

"It's snowing!" the butler cries, even more agitated by her calmness. "It's snowing and he's out there digging with his hands like some-" the man's face goes an interesting shade of purple which gives Enola a hint about the nature of the word he swallowed. "You must put a stop to this at once, my lady. He is not even wearing his coat. He's going to catch his death! What will people say?"

Enola is more surprised about the snow than Tewkesbury digging around with his hands, if she has to be honest. It was brisk in the morning but it didn't feel like snow weather at all. But when she puts her book down, receives her coat from one of the maids and steps out, realizes it's dark outside and it is indeed snowing. The chill bites.

Tewkesbury is at the far edge of the front lawn, near the sunroom. He's on his knees, digging through the soil with his hands, as reported. Another young man who is slightly shorter than him is standing to his left, holding a flowerpot like it's a baby, nervously peeking inside the hole over Tewkesbury's shoulder every once in a while. Neither of them are wearing their coats.

"What is happening here?"

The other young man turns and goes red instantly as soon as he sees Enola. After a beat, Enola recognizes him as the young boy with whom she exchanged clothes with, the gardener's son. Right.

"Um. Your ladyship." He bows clumsily, holding the pot to his chest like a shield and then immediately looks at Tewkesbury as if asking for help.

"Enola," he acknowledges her. "You should return inside, it's bitterly cold."

"Well, good then I wore my coat, unlike some people. I must inform you that you are giving your butler a heart attack."

"Coats would slow us down." He doesn't stop digging for a second. "Time is of the essence here."

"Is that so? Then may I interest you in this brilliant new invention? I believe it's called a shovel. Does wonders on dirt, they say."

"Shovels can cause damage. It's very delicate."

"What is?"

"Ha!" He cups something dark and small between his palms and gently raises it towards the other man, "here, John. The last one."

The delicate whatever it is is then placed inside the pot most carefully and the two men gaze into the pot with matching smiles Enola can only describe as "doting".

"I'll put these in the greenhouse," the man says, pulling what Enola just realizes is a blanket wrapped around the pot to cover it. _So they brought a blanket for whatever that was but not coats for themselves_ , she thinks to herself. _Sounds like a very sane thing to do._

To be fair, it also sounds rather like something she and Sherlock would do, in a number of occasions.

Tewkesbury wipes the wet soil on his trousers and Enola hopes the poor butler didn't have to see that. The man is suffering enough as it is.

"Now will you come inside with me?"

He's still smiling and she is forced to admit it makes her feel warm. It's just so carefree and open and genuinely happy. She catches herself staring at his lips, tracing their curve with her eyes, wondering what would've happened if-

If they weren't turning purple, like they are.

"We are going in right now." She grabs his arm and drags him,laughing and shivering, towards the house. Once they are safely inside, the butler insists he takes a warm bath immediately and then sits under a pile of blankets in front of the fire. He leaves them with a calmly uttered "I shall send tea".

An hour later, Enola sits next to a pile of blankets holding a teacup. "Will you ever tell me what was that about or shall I turn it into a case?"

"Nothing as mysterious to warrant that, I assure you. We just had to rescue the hyacinth bulbs."

"The what?"

He gives her a funny look. "I _dearly_ hope you are just mocking me."

"Flowers have bulbs now?"

This time he openly laughs at her frown.

"Some do, yes. And they are very delicate and they rot when it snows. We usually pull them out towards the end of november but the snow came awfully early this year."

"You almost caught your death for some hyacinths? Somewhere someone as mad as you would have some more, no doubt."

"My father bought them for me when I was five. They flowered every season since." He's watching his tea's steam. His smile is small and sorrowful.

A broken heart, she remembers.

"If you perished doing that, no one would believe me when I recounted them this story," she says instead, hoping to change the mood. "We marry, few weeks later I come to your house and suddenly you die trying to _save hyacinths_? Your mother would definitely have to hire Sherlock again."

He smiles to her but it's too polite, distant. While she's still debating whether she should ask, he speaks.

"Speaking of Mr. Holmes, the word is he has a new case."

"I was not informed."

"I'm sure you will be, soon."

They haven't been apart for long ever since her proposal, when she thinks about it. Even on days they didn't see each other, they were in touch through notes or runners. This might be their first goodbye in this arrangement. And by now she is fairly sure they hurt him, no matter how much he insists he admires her work greatly and wouldn't want anything else for her. She can understand that. She loves her mother to pieces and wouldn't change a single thing about her even if she could but at the same time, she wouldn't have left Enola if she wasn't the way she was. A dilemma, really, how the things that make us love people also take them away from us, sometimes.

In moments like these, she misses the days when she was always alone.

"It shouldn't take too long. I'll be back sooner than Lestrade can find his own front door."

He doesn't smile this time, just nods.

"You know where to find me."

***

The case ends up taking 3 months.

They follow a thief for a week until they find his boss but then they realize she also have a boss and then a letter they steal from her reveals she has yet another boss. At this point Sherlock determines there is no point bothering with any of it if they are not going the find whoever it is that runs the whole show. Suddenly Sherlock has to become an arms dealer, Enola has to pose as an actress and in the end the actual boss turns out to be an ambassador. Sherlock determines it's time they bring this affair to Mycroft's attention, for reasons that are not very clear to Enola. The man is dealt with rather fast, but it doesn't end there either because apparently, they missed an entire branch of this syndicate and they start hunting them down so Enola has to help Sherlock fake his own death and write to someone called Irene Norton for help. They part ways for a few weeks to ensure they are not tailed anymore and though Mrs. Norton is the most generous of hostesses, for the first time ever during a case Enola misses being home. The whole thing is exhausting and exceedingly chaotic and she also misses a certain someone.

Her mind never lets her forget this fact for a second, even in the most inconvenient situations, even when she is jumping off of a second story window, it keeps flashing this piece of information again and again. One morning, Sherlock sends her a train ticket home. She says her goodbyes to Mr. and Mrs. Norton and spends her three hours before the departure wandering around a marketplace.

It's almost spring again now and she missed Christmas. She should bring something for him. Of that, she's sure but she cannot decide what that something may be. He seemingly has everything, and the things he does not have, he can get himself on the spot. She idly picks some fruit for herself, checks out the selection of books and then spots a flower seller. She fiddles with the ring hanging from a chain on her neck, trying to decide if this would be too easy of a gift.The flowers may or may not survive the trip. She wouldn't know if they are healthy or not, either, not like he would.

She goes to talk to the seller anyway and leaves for the station with a daffodil bulb in her pocket. At least, that's what the seller told her it was.

It's quite late when she finally arrives their house in Town, but there is still light at the windows. She wants a good meal and a bath and to sleep for a few days, preferably. She wants to feel safe for a while. She wants his mostly easy companionship, when her mind isn't insisting on meddling with things.

She wants to see him, more than anything, she finds. His face is getting blurry in her mind again and she doesn't like that one bit.

As if she summoned him, he appears in the foyer. He looks paler than when she left, and his eyes have dark circles under them. He looks at her for a moment, as if he can't be sure if she's actually there, then takes two swift steps towards her and then-

And then he's holding her, just as tightly as she needed to be held. He releases her after a moment but his hand goes to her face, tracing the path from her ear to her chin.

"I truly thought this would be over sooner than this," she says. "But I guess I only have myself to blame. I cursed us the second I uttered Lestrade's name."

His smile is a bit weak but she doesn't mind.

"You must be tired," he says, remembering himself. "Though I'm dying to hear this time's adventure, we'll have to talk in the morning."

"I'll make sure to be there."

"I'll go tell someone to prepare a bath-"

"Gideon?"

With how fast he turns his head and the shocked expression on his face, someone who didn't know them would think she uttered a very bad word.

"I have something for you. It might need some care, considering how _delicate_ they are." She fishes out the small paper bag from her pocket. "I wasn't here for Christmas," she mumbles, answering the question she can see written on his face. "And I thought you might like it."

He peers inside briefly, then his eyes return to her face. She watches as his throat move, like he will say something, but then he doesn't. He just holds the bulb in his palms with all the tenderness the world has to offer. "Thank you."

She is too tired to do anything but nod. "In the morning, then."

"Enola? I'm....glad you're back."

She thinks back to the time when she had to sleep in a field with no shelter other than a boulder to cut the wind. How, even when she was half mad with worry for Sherlock, starving and cold, she thought if she got a single wish just then she would've wished he was there with her. It was utterly nonsensical and her mind was quick to point it out but it was the truth. Vulnerability will always flush that out of everyone.

"I'm glad to be back," she says, and she means it on a level he would never understand.

He doesn't come to bed before she's asleep and in the morning his side is still cold.

***

Their next case a few months later proves a lot easier, thank every force of the universe. She is meant to keep an eye on the Prime Minister's wife while Sherlock is trying to find who is threatening her with death. It's rather easy to do when one is already invited to the very same party.

Enola returns to Tewkesbury's side after her second tour of the room and finds him talking very amiably to a very beautiful lady.

"There she is," Tewkesbury says to her. "Enola, Lady Pendleton. Lady Pendleton, this is my Enola."

Of course Enola knows her. She's read her book recounting her travels through Russia and the Balkans, along with the entirety of London.

"I'm delighted to meet you," Lady Pendleton says with a big smile. "I read every account of your cases on the papers. I'm sure they must be so thrilling!"

"They can be at times. Not as thrilling as your travels, I'm sure." She tries to keep a polite smile on her face, though her eyes keep following the Prime Minister's wife.

"Lady Pendleton is a member of the Royal Horticultural Society," Tewkesbury informs her. "We met at their New Year's Eve ball. She's been a great help with the orchids."

"Oh, he's being way too kind, I assure you," Lady Pendleton says to Enola. "I merely told some people to let you enter the library. It's nothing compared to your generosity. If it wasn't for your greenhouse, I would never had a chance to see how orchids adapt to England's climate."

"Please excuse me for a moment," Enola tells them and goes after the Prime Minister's wife, who just disappeared from the hall with her friend.

Upon her return, she finds them in deep conversation about something called a tiger lily. This is how it carries on through the night; she is busy with the Prime Minister's wife but he seems to enjoy Lady Pendleton's company quite a lot. Finally the ball ends and her charge leaves surrounded by police officers. Their carriage comes just after.

"Maybe we can invite her for dinner, now that you're back," Tewkesbury says. "I think you would get on well. She is quite an admirer of yours. I think we talked more about you than anything else."

"She seems very nice." She is aware it doesn't sound very enthusiastic but she is tired and for some reason, very irritated. She tries very hard to not let that seep into her voice. "I'm glad to see you have a new friend. And I found her book very interesting. I would love to hear more stories from her."

"She is brilliant. Did you know that she has a tiger lily at her house? The only live specimen in the Kingdom. It does look like a lily but it's orange with spots. Looks like a drawing."

_So he's been to her house as well._

This is so silly. He is a grown man and should be allowed to go wherever he wishes, just like herself. And it's not as if Pendleton would kill him in her own house, where people no doubt see him enter. She is a Dame and she was nothing but polite and warm towards her. Is it because Tewkesbury has a new friend? Well, he has many friends. He's very good at making them, when he's not busy causing grief to his more conservative peers at the House. But he never talked about them this enthusiastically and never admired them quite like this..... _except for me,_ she realizes. _He never admired anyone like this except for me._

She cannot believe this. She refuses to believe this. Jealousy is a natural emotion just like the rest, her mother taught her, but it is not one she enjoys. Some people are rather fond of it, it always seemed to Enola. Some enjoy chasing it in places where it would not be, without reason. She prefers envy. Envy, she can use for motivation. Envy, she can rationalize. This jealousy is nonsensical as the so called "sixth sense". She cannot exactly keep Tewkesbury under lock, not that she would want to. And she would be a hypocrite to say she doesn't approve of men befriending women, considering all the men she calls friends. What is it, then? Is it because they are married now? Because people would perceive his interest as a betrayal? Why should that matter? She knows the truth. She knows this is not real, and that it's not fair for him to be alone for the rest of his life just because their arrangement benefits her. That would be awfully selfish of her. He's never been selfish, he deserves better.

She makes a decision that leaves a lump in her throat.

"Enola? You are very quiet tonight. Are you well?"

"Sorry, just tired." She gives him a smile she hopes is reassuring. "We can talk back home. There is something I wanted to discuss."

He doesn't look too reassured but thankfully lets it go.

***

One of the maids brings over some tea to their room. He took off his jacket and is currently folding up the sleeves of his shirt.

She stares into the flames, waits until he's seated to begin talking. "She is very beautiful, don't you think?"

He raises his brows. "I'm afraid I'm a bit lost-"

"Lady Pendleton, I mean."

"I suppose. Why?"

Her cup is slightly shaking in her hand. She sets it on the small table to avoid any accidents. Forces herself to look into his eyes. She won't give herself the easy way out. She doesn't want him to understand this wrong, he must see that she's giving her consent.

Swallowing is suddenly very hard.

"You can have her," she says on an exhale, "if you want."

His brow furrows, confused. "Why would I- do you- Have you forgotten that _we_ are _married_?"

"Of course not. This arrangement is working very well for me. But we both know the truth. That this is not a marriage, not truly. You don't owe me loyalty in this sense. I know I have no right to expect you to be alone. You have my full-"

"You'll take a lover, too, then?"

It's her time to frown. Why would she take a lover? What would be the purpose? The only person she can trust that much is sitting right here, asking her this absurd question.

"We were talking about you."

He laughs humorlessly. "Right. About you wanting me to have a mistress."

"I did not say that. I said you can have her, if you-"

He gets up so fast, it startles her. He walks towards their bed, then returns. Enola can see he's furious. The reason of it however, she cannot figure out. She thinks it abhorrent for spouses to have affairs when they promise each other devotion but their situation is not like that. What is the point of devotion without love? He loves her, she knows, but not like that. Not like mother must've loved father. She wants him to have someone he can love like that. He deserves it.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve such low opinion on my character," his voice is so soft and so, so cold, "but I did not give you my word just so I can break it. And I would greatly appreciate it if you can refrain from insulting me like this in the future."

"I didn't mean to-"

" _Goodnight_ , Enola."

The door closes with some force after him and she feels oddly numb, like there is something broken and quivering inside her chest. There was a misjudgment on her part, that is for sure. But he never left before, not even when they were practically strangers and she left before but she came back, she always came back to him because she-

_But of course. Our time has always been borrowed._

Suddenly she cannot bear being in this room, in this house, alone. She comes down the stairs so fast the maids who were coming out of the drawing room gasp.

"My lady?"

She's faintly aware she's still in her ball gown. She cannot go back to change. She cannot talk to them. She is filled to the brim with the singleminded determination of a young child who woke from a nightmare. She has to get to Sherlock before she falls apart.

It is quite a walk from Tewkesbury's house to Baker Street but walking feels good. She can hold herself together as long as she's walking, as long as she has something to channel the nervous buzzing under her skin into. A great tide is rising within her and she frets what will happen once it crashes.

Sherlock, apparently, has company, which is not unexpected on its own. How she can hear their voices from outside is, though.

"Tell yourself whatever you wish," an unfamiliar voice says. "I can't bear this anymore."

"If you can listen for a mere moment-" Sherlock. Sounding uncharacteristically pleading.

"You wish to lie to yourself, please don't hold back on my account. But I heard enough lies."

Then the door opens and Enola comes face to face with a complete stranger. Sherlock is standing right behind him, hand reaching out as if he was going to grab his shoulder. For a moment they all freeze.

She gathers herself first. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt-"

"No apology necessary," the stranger says, not unkindly. "We were done."

Sherlock watches him go for a second, then his eyes find her.

"Who was that?"

"Nevermind that now. Enola, why are you here at this hour? Are you alright?"

_Ah_ , she remembers, _that's why my eyes are stinging._

"Enola? Say something for the love of-"

Enola never gets to hear the rest of that sentence. Suddenly her vision grows blurry and her throat burns, then Sherlock pulls her to his chest and she doesn't hear anything other than the beating of his heart and her own pitiful whimpering for a while after that.


End file.
